Shenanigans
by agent iz hyper
Summary: The pack is amused (they also suck, horribly), Derek's jacket smells nice, and Isaac does not look like pizza. Oh, and Stiles is drunk. That may be the reason. / Mildly cracky fun, vague (I think?) Sterek undertones if you're looking for it, and plenty of rambling. Rated for slight language. / Includes Scott, Isaac and Erica.


_This fic was born of two completely separate things – one, drunk!Stiles is the bestest ever (okay, no, ALL Stiles is the bestest ever) and, two, me texting my cousin while half asleep at an ungodly time that should not exist means that random proclamations of "I feel like pizza" automatically make my barely-working mind cackle and reply "Well, you don't LOOK like pizza".  
...yeah, okay, I shouldn't be allowed to converse with people when I'm not wide awake. (And even then, that's, uh, up for debate.) _

_Also I guess this is kinda pre-slash-ish Sterek, or there's kinda slashy undertones, or something? If that's not your thing, it's okay, you can just put it down to Stiles being drunk. xP Anywho~ read on, and I hope you're entertained?_

* * *

Stiles' mind is never quiet, much like his body is never still. Seriously, his flailing limbs don't quit flailing even when he sleeps.

And his brain doesn't shut up even when he's slightly a little bit tipsy-going-on-drunk – except there's a distinct lack of a filter (assuming Stiles _has_ anything resembling a mind-to-mouth filter at any given time of the day or night, alcohol-affected or not) and his thoughts – and in extension, his words – tend to get a bit more out of hand than usual.

_Oh shut up_, he makes perfect sense all the time, it's not his fault people take things too literally or linearly because he has a round-about way of saying stuff before getting to the point of the matter, and-

"Stiles, you're rambling again."

Instead of snapping shut, Stiles' mouth falls open in a comical 'O' at the sudden appearance of familiar long blond hair, leather, and amused smirk in front of his face. He may or may not jerk at the intrusion and fall off the couch to the hard unforgiving floor with an '_ooph_' at the impact but if he _did_ then no-one's here to-

Oh.

"Erica!" he exclaims to the floor.

The floor says nothing back.

"_Rude._"

Erica, however, crouches next to him and, still smirking (evil, evil smirk), says, "Comfortable?"

"Very comfab- comf'bat- what?" Stiles narrows his eyes at her – well. He squints the eye that's not squished against the floor along with the whole left side of his face and glares at her sideways and it is _deadly_, okay, it- "y'suck," he mumbles when all Erica does is laugh.

"Yeah, okay, Stiles. You might wanna get back on the couch, I'm not hauling you back up there again." And then she gets to her feet – steadily and gracefully and _fuck her_ – and walks away.

Stiles flips her the bird. Or, well, he assumes he does. It may be the wrong finger. Still. The sentiment is the same. Not that she notices. "Y'all suck," he grumbles to the others in the room, before rolling onto his back with great effort ("_Why's the wall so faaaaar, whoa._" ... "That's the ceiling, Stiles." "'Course it is.") and glaring around until his eyes land on his best friend lounging on the armchair and texting.

"Scott-Scott- _Scotty_!" Stiles waves an arm high in the air until Scott looks over then lets it flop back down the ground, sliding his hand under his head to cushion it from the stupidly hard floor intent on giving him stupid floor-bruises all over his face. "Help me out here, maaan!"

Scott blinks at him, and tilts his head in that way that makes Stiles think he's actually a giant puppy instead of a werewolf. Maybe he's a werepuppy. Is that a thing? It should be a thing. Stiles nods to himself – he has declared it and it is a _thing_.

"You'll just roll off again, Stiles."

Stiles makes an indignant noise. "I did _not_ roll off, I jus- jus'..." he waves his free hand at the couch in lieu of the words that are swimming out of his grasp. It doesn't help him catch them. The couch doesn't help either. He huffs at it. "_More rude_."

"Okay, dude," Scott mutters, already back on his phone.

Stiles frowns (maybe pouts a little bit). He needs new friends.

"I need new friends," he complains loudly, throwing his arm up again and letting it hang off the edge of the couch. "Who are helpful. An' help me. When I need help. Like now. I could be _dying_ and- and- an' would anyone _help_ poor dyin' Stiles, nooooo, why would they?"

He doesn't get a response. It's okay, though, because that light on the wall waaay above him (ceiling?) is, like, _swimming_. So cool. Stiles moves his head to one side, then the other, and watches the light dance with every movement.

"Heh. I'm dancin' with the light, guys."

Some snickering, more silence. Well. Fine. He doesn't want to share his awesome dancing light anyway, they can all find their own, bet there's lots of dancing lights around in this place and this one's _his_.

But his fun is cut off sadly when, from across the room, Isaac says, "I feel like pizza."

Stiles lets his head fall to the left so he can stare at him intently. He squints, sticks pursed lips out in consideration, then declares, "But you don't _look_ like pizza."

Three pairs of eyes turn to stare at him, wide and incredulous.

"Look like a human, dude. An Isaac. An Isaac-shaped human. Werewolf?" Stiles furrows his eyebrows thoughtfully. "But y'look human _now_, 'less you wolf-out, but y'shouldn't cuz, dude, not cool 'less someone's being killed, right? No-one's being killed." He looks around to Erica and Scott, eyes widening. "_Is_ anyone killed- kill- who's killed?"

Isaac snorts, Erica laughs at him, and Scott sighs. "No-one's killing anybody, dude, it's fine."

"Oh." Stiles turns his frown on him then. "Bein' killed isn't _fine_, Scotty, don't be rude."

Scott just looks exasperated, which Stiles doesn't get because- _because_-

Well. Just 'cause.

And he doesn't need a reason _anyway_ because _the door just opened_ and-

"Yoooo, Derek, my man!"

Across the room, Isaac huffs a tired laugh and drops his head onto crossed arms on the table.

Derek pauses in the doorway of his flat, takes in his two betas and Scott and, finally, Stiles on the floor who waves at him and grins.

He eventually steps in, shuts the door behind him, and asks Scott – well, demands, because Derek doesn't know the concept of _asking_ because he's been raised by wolves or- oh. _Oh_, heyyy, there's a good one-

"Why is he drunk."

Scott looks sheepish. "Well, uh, there was a party?"

Stiles wrinkles his nose. "Bad party, dude, _bad party_, never again never doing that again, _God_."

"Yeah," Scott nods in agreement, of course he does, Stiles is always right.

Derek rolls his eyes. "And why's he on the floor?"

"Couch is full of soul-eating evil that repels me," Stiles mumbles while Erica drawls, "He kept falling off so we just left him there."

"And evil," he reminds her.

Derek looks like he thinks he's dealing with idiots. Stiles supposes he can't blame him – while he, Stiles, is a certifiable genius, his friends may be lacking in a couple of areas (_yes, Scott, that means you_). He strides over to Stiles, his face set in its almost permanent grumpy look.

"Y'should get drunk, Sourwolf," Stiles tells him with a wide lazy grin. "Live a little! Or a lot. But not by almos' dying that just sucks for everyone," he tacks on.

Derek grunts (which means _yes of course Stiles, whatever you say Stiles, because you're a genius and you know everything so I'm going to listen to you and do what you advise because of course that would be the best option for everyone involved_, or it does in Stiles' head, anyway) and grabs the wrist of Stiles' arm that's hanging off the couch.

Stiles blinks up at him (when'd he get so tall?) and then Derek's pulled him up and gripping his forearm when the sudden rush of blood to everywhere that he hasn't used since Scott had deposited him onto the couch hits him, and he sways with the room that's all dancing now even though-

"Where's the _music_, guys."

Derek huffs a bit and pulls to get him moving, and Stiles does not like that because _hello_ his feet are still trying to figure out what to do with all the blood rushing through them and _ow pins-and-needles_ so of course he stumbles and gets a face-full of leather jacket. Nice leather jacket, though, smells like woody forest and rain and tough manly Alpha werewolf-

Who is now glaring at him long-sufferingly with an odd look on his face – like, discomfort or something? – and readjusting his grip on Stiles so that he can stride alongside Derek without faceplanting his back (or, y'know, his anywhere else) again. All the while muttering something about guest rooms and beds and then Stiles tunes him out happily because _a bed hallelujah_.

"...and you just never shut up, do you."

Stiles blinks at the back of Derek's head as a door swings open in front of them, like a magic entrance to the beautiful warm inviting image of a _bed_ sitting in the middle of the room in all its heavenly glory and just waiting for him to sink into it.

"I like this bed," he sighs happily as Derek shoves him a bit to sit but he forgoes that and sprawls on it belly-down in pure bliss. "This is a nice bed."

Derek watches him and if Stiles pays close attention now that the dark room isn't dancing wildly around him, his lips are _twitching_.

"You, too," he adds drowsily, shoving his hands under the pillow and snuggling into it. "When, y'know, y're not bein' grouchy and all _holier-than-thou_ with all th't _I am the Alpha hear me roar_ snazz... y'know?" He ends with a yawn.

Derek snorts softly and shakes his head. Stiles doesn't stay awake long enough to hear if he responds or not.

**xXx**

He wakes to a crushing headache, a disgustingly cotton-filled mouth, and the _distressingly loud_ message tone of his phone right next to his head.

"Fuckfuckfuck," Stiles moans, pulling the pillow over his head against the light basking the room and rudely attacking his eyes. He reaches out blindly for his phone, drags it under the pillow too and squints against the glare to the picture messa-

The pillow and covers (_covers? Who covered him? What's this room whose bed is he in oh God what happened last- oh my God Derek-_) go tumbling to the floor along with a furiously flailing Stiles who yells "_Erica!_"

The blonde beta's evil laughter reaches him, along with a couple others – Isaac? Lydia? Who even knows anymore _the whole pack is a bunch of evil not-funny idiots_ and-

"Oh my _God_."

She sent the photo to _all of them_.

Stiles drops his head back onto the back, face-first, and bemoans his drunken existence into the mattress. He does, however, take solace in the fact that Derek will rip his betas a new one at their next training session.

The thought breaks through the bleakness of a hangover and cheers him up considerably. He smartly ignores the image on his phone.

_(1) NEW TEXT FROM: Erica_

_Enjoying all that leather? ;) _

And underneath it, a photo of a clearly drunk Stiles leaning against (_hadn't he fallen or something?_) a broad familiar leather-clad back with a (_horrifyingly_) content grin, eyes half-shut and-

"Ohhhh _fuck it_."

_He was not sniffing Derek's jacket okay he didn't- he wasn't-_

"Erica, I'm going to fucking kill you," Stiles groans into the bed, trusting that she'll hear him with her werewolfy super-hearing.

He's going to kill them _all_.

...Soon as he feels like a functioning person again.

* * *

**...don't judge, I wrote this waaaaay way after midnight. *nods* So. Um. Yeah. Reviews are seriously wonderful things and also whooooo first Teen Wolf fic~! *throws confetti and party streamers and stuff* _and yay for Stiles because STILES IS THE BEST_ *tackle-huggles him* I wants me a Stiles can I have one x3**

**Aaaaaaannnd shout-out to my fellow awesome TW/Sterek-ers because, y'know, awesomeness ;D *pokes Dodo and Renae***

**And I'm done here. Ta for reading, let me know if you liked it or not, and maybe I'll write more TW. But, yknow, less crack-y next time. xP**

**Cheers, bros~**

**izzy. :D**


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